Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 36: Little Things. (2)

Chapter 36: Little Things. (2)
Zeph spent the next hour just wandering through the market, buying supplies with the mechanical efficiency of someone following a checklist. Rice. Beans. Vegetables that would keep. Instant noodles because the vendor had been right about exhaustion.
Some kind of jerky that was apparently made from boar, not rat. Tea, because he vaguely remembered liking tea in his previous life.
The vendors were patient with him, explaining things he should have known, not judging when he didn’t understand basic cooking terminology or asked obvious questions about how to prepare certain foods.
’They think I’m a Wildlands survivor who never learned to cook properly. Which is true, technically. Just not for the reasons they think.’
His credit chip took a solid dent—maybe 500 credits total—but he left the market with actual supplies and the knowledge of how to return.
The walk back to his apartment felt different than the walk out had been. Less overwhelming. More manageable. Like maybe he could actually do this whole "living in civilization" thing.
He was three blocks from his building when he passed a shop that made him stop dead.
The window display was small, tucked between a laundromat and what looked like a repair shop for mana-tech devices. But the items inside made something in Zeph’s chest clench with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
Manga!
Actual physical manga volumes, preserved from before the Descent or reprinted by whatever publishing infrastructure had survived.
The art style was unmistakable even through the window—those distinctive covers, the Japanese characters he couldn’t read but recognized anyway, the visual language of a medium he’d loved in his previous life.
Before he quite realized he was doing it, Zeph was pushing open the shop door.
A bell chimed. The interior smelled like old paper and plastic, that distinctive scent of a used bookstore. Shelves lined every wall, packed with books, manga, light novels, even some magazines that looked decades old.
The proprietor—a woman probably in her fifties, wearing reading glasses and a comfortable cardigan—looked up from behind the counter.
"Welcome. Let me know if you need help finding anything."
Zeph nodded absently, already moving toward the manga section like a man in a trance.
The selection was eclectic, clearly whatever had survived or been preserved. Some series he somehow recognized from his previous life. Others that must have been published after the Descent. A few that looked like they’d been through hell but were still readable.
His hand reached out almost involuntarily and pulled a volume from the shelf.
One Kick Man, Volume 7.
The cover showed Zakitama in his characteristic bored expression, dealing with some threat that clearly didn’t challenge him at all. The pages were slightly yellowed but intact, the art just as clean and dynamic as he remembered.
Zeph found himself smiling—actually smiling, the expression feeling strange on his face after being unused for so long.
’I collected this series. In my previous life. Had almost all the volumes before I died!’
’This exact book probably came out around 2018 or so. Several decades ago in this world’s timeline. And somehow it survived.’
"You’re a fan of that one?"
The proprietor had moved closer without him noticing, peering at his selection with interest.
"Used to be," Zeph said quietly. "Haven’t seen a copy in... a long time."
"It’s a good series. The protagonist is refreshingly straightforward—no angst, no complicated character development, just a guy who’s too strong and finds it boring." She smiled. "Sometimes simple is good."
"Yeah."
"That volume is eight credits. I’ve got volumes 1 through 12 if you’re interested in catching up."
Eight credits for a single manga volume was probably highway robbery by pre-Descent standards. But Zeph found himself nodding anyway, already looking for the other volumes.
He left the shop twenty minutes later with eight volumes carefully stashed in his storage ring, 64 credits lighter, and feeling more human than he had in three years.
_____
The afternoon passed in a blur of small discoveries.
He found a public bath facility—apparently standard in this district because some apartments didn’t have full bathing setups—and paid the five credits for access. The concept of hot water, soap that actually lathered, and the ability to get properly clean for the first time in weeks was almost overwhelming.
He spent forty minutes just sitting in the large communal bath, other patrons giving his tall frame a wide berth, letting heat soak into muscles that had been tensed for survival for too long.
’This is what normal people do. They just... relax. Because they can. Because nothing is trying to kill them.’
He found a laundromat and paid to have his clothes cleaned properly instead of just rinsing them in whatever water he could find. The attendant took one look at his worn hoodie and cargo pants and suggested, tactfully, that he might want to purchase new clothing at some point.
"There’s a secondhand shop two blocks west," she offered. "They get donations all the time. You could probably find stuff that fits better."
Zeph looked down at himself—at the hoodie that was more hole than fabric in places, at pants that had been patched so many times they were more patch than original material.
"I’ll check it out."
He found a small park tucked between apartment buildings, where people were just... existing. Reading on benches. Walking dogs. Playing games he didn’t recognize. An old man was doing slow, deliberate movements that might have been tai chi or might have been some kind of mana cultivation technique—Zeph couldn’t tell the difference.
He sat on a bench at the park’s edge and watched people live their lives for almost an hour, his new manga volumes sitting beside him in their protective wrapping.
’This is what I’ve been fighting to reach. Not just survival. This. The ability to sit on a bench in the sun and not worry about whether something is going to try to eat you in the next five minutes.’
The sun was setting by the time he finally headed back to his apartment, casting long shadows across the street. His storage ring was full of supplies—groceries, manga, a couple spare set of brand new clothes he’d bought that somehow easily fit his frame—and his credit chip was significantly lighter.
But he felt... good.
Not "survived another day" good. Not "didn’t die" good.
Just... good. In a simple, uncomplicated way he’d forgotten was possible.
Mrs. Chen was back on her bench by the building entrance, feeding her birds again.
"Productive day, Kai?"
"Yeah." He adjusted the ring on his finger. "Yeah, it was."
"Good. You’re looking better already—less like you’re about to collapse. Keep that up and you’ll fit right in here."
Zeph nodded and headed for the stairs, climbing to his eighth-floor apartment with supplies that would last him a month and entertainment that would occupy his evenings.
The apartment was exactly as he’d left it—small, basic, safe.
He unpacked the groceries, stacking rice and beans in the cabinet, putting the meat in the cooling unit, arranging everything with the automatic organization of someone who’d spent years optimizing limited resources.
Then he collapsed on the bed—feet hanging off the end as always—and opened the first volume of One Kick Man.
The pages turned with soft rustling sounds. The art was just as good as he remembered. Zakitama dealt with increasingly absurd threats with the same bored expression, and despite everything Zeph had been through, he found himself actually laughing at a few of the jokes.
’Little things,’ he thought, turning another page. ’That’s what normal life is made of. Not grand gestures or life-or-death battles. Just... little things. Hot baths. Clean clothes. Manga that makes you laugh. Food that tastes good. Neighbors who help without expecting payment.’
’Maybe that’s worth learning how to have.’
Outside his window, Avalon City continued its evening routine. Lights flickered on in thousands of windows. Traffic hummed through the streets. The ambient noise of forty-five million people going about their lives created a low background hum that was strangely comforting after years of silence.
Zeph read until his eyes grew heavy, the manga volume resting on his chest, and drifted off to sleep thinking about little things.
For the first time in three years, he dreamed about something other than survival.
He dreamed about a future where maybe—just maybe—he could be more than just the Ghost of the ruins.
Maybe he could be Kai Mercer.
Maybe he could be human again.